You think about the fact that you started writing this, in the evening, because you were feeling ill at ease, and because you hoped that—in putting your thoughts on the page—you would be able to feel better, or at least discover the reason for your anxieties. You had intended to describe a day, but never…

Growing ever-weary at the prospect of writing, you think about the fact that you will never be able to know what people think when they read your work, the fact that you will never be able to know what you will think when you later read your own work, the fact that reading unveils itself…

A hipster Hamlet – replete with handlebar mustache, oxfords, and a plaid button-down – sits down and stares at the white laptop screen, using internet he paid for with a scone, and asks himself the final existential question: "to blog, or not to blog?"